


Decay

by Boreal_Fox



Series: Under the guise of a horror story [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Gen, Horror, I Tried, Inspired by Music, Or Is It?, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boreal_Fox/pseuds/Boreal_Fox
Summary: It started slow, almost a dragging melody.It didn’t quicken. It didn’t slowen. It went quiet.Then it came back.It turned haunting. Echoing throughout the house. Everything was filled with the same tune slowly pulling you along deeper and higher.
Series: Under the guise of a horror story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645798





	Decay

The letter came to your mailbox on _the first of December 1945_ . You were _ten_ at the time and you had just gotten home from school. Your parents wouldn’t be home till later that evening. You were old enough that you didn’t need a nanny. You were _alone_ at the house. 

The envelope looked old, yellowed and yet it was perfectly intact. No creases or crumbles to be seen. It was wax sealed. You looked at the seal closer. It was painted deep red and it had some kind of crest on it, you didn’t know what it was, still don’t know what the crest meant. 

You had turned the envelope over to look at the address written across it. _There wasn’t anything._

Puzzled you had put the letter on the dining table and went on with your day. You had to practice playing the cello. It was more important to you than an old envelope.

You asked your mother that evening if she had seen an old envelope on the dinner table. She had looked at you, perfect _smile_ , perfect _curls_ , perfect _wife_ , _utterly fake_ , and answered, “I haven’t, honey. We got mail today?”

“We did, mother. Are you sure you haven’t seen it. It looked official.”

“No I haven’t, ask your father about it. Now have you practiced your cello today…”

Your father hadn’t seen anything. He asked you if you had practiced the cello. 

You eventually forgot the envelope.

* * *

  
  
  


You were well into your thirties when you got an envelope in the mail. You had a family and a husband and you were a professional cellist now. You’re parents _had_ been _proud_.

The envelope looked old, it was yellowed and wax sealed. You recognized the symbol. You didn’t know where the crest was, but you knew you had seen it before. You didn’t know where or _when_.

You turned around to look at the front of the envelope. It had a crossed over date written 

across in _sweeping_ , _twirling_ , _elegant_ handwriting.

Your son was yelling for you in the living room.

You didn’t get to open the letter. 

(3̶.̶1̶2̶.̶1̶9̶5̶8̶)

  
  
  


* * *

_Years_ passed. Your son grew and didn’t need you anymore. He left to see the world and _he didn’t need you anymore_.

You continued to play the cello. You were _great_. It was second nature to you.

Your husband died. They told you it was an accident that took him. Your son came to his funeral, he had always _preferred his father_. It had been awhile since you saw him. You _missed_ him.

You were alone.

_That was a lie. You had your cello._

No one visits you anymore.

You bought yourself a house _away_ from your home. You didn’t move into it, but you had felt compelled to do so. 

So you did. _Simple_ as that.

* * *

  
  


You were in your sixties when the letter came to your door. 

It looked old, yellowed, _familiar_. It was wax sealed, blood red.

You took a look at the front of the envelope. Your _name_ and _address_ were written on it in _sweeping, twirling, elegant_ handwriting. It had a date on it, 6.12.1976.

You opened the envelope without any hesitation.

You were _alone_.

Inside the envelope was an invite. It was elegant, straight to the point. 

You liked it. You took it.

You took your cello with you and left the same evening.

It would have been the last time anyone saw you if they cared.

No one cared, so no one knew you were gone.

6.12.1976 was the last day anyone saw you. 

You disappeared after that. _Gone_.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The house looked old, _washed out_ . It was overgrown, vines crawling across it. Everything was in _greyscale_.

The front door was _imposing, intimidating, uninviting, welcoming_. It had a brass knocker.

You knocked it _once_. _Twice_.

The door was opened gently. You were welcomed inside.

The person who opened the door was a woman. She was _beautiful_ . Or actually had _once been_ beautiful. Her hair was grey, dirty, pulled into a messy knot. She was gaunt and grey like she hadn’t seen sunlight in _centuries_ . She was dressed in a _pure_ white gown.

And her eyes. Oh, her _eyes_ ! Once filled with color and life, were now _white_. You could see only white. No pupils, iris, or _veins_. 

You smiled at her. She smiled back. Lips pulling into a _stretched_ grin. Teeth _rotting_ in her mouth.

She lead you further into the house. You followed after her carrying your _priced, pristine_ cello. 

You passed through corridors, arches, doorways. Everything was _grey, lifeless, rotten, deceased_ . You _loved_ it. 

The woman finally came to an end. You both stood staring at an ornate door. It was _grand_ and dark brown, there were gold accents decorated on it. It was the only intact piece of furniture in the house. It was _grand_ and beautiful.

The woman turned to look at you. Her grin stretched across her face. She put her hand on the door handle. Her grey, stretched skin was a stark contrast against the golden, ornate handle. She bowed and turned the handle slowly. You were mesmerized, in a trance. 

The door swung open haltingly. 

They walked through it. They came to a ballroom. It was _vast, old, grey, decorated, crumbling,_ dying. There were cracks on the wall, vines _crawling_ to the grand room.

The ceiling was high. It was grey, everything was _grey_. 

You started to _feel_ grey.

There was a chandelier swaying on the ceiling. It was made from old, rotten _bones_ . It was dripping _red._

There was a man in the middle of the room. He smiled at you, lips _pulling_ out of the way of his _sharp, sharp teeth_. They were stained dark brown. He bowed, it was a welcome.

He was dressed in white.

The man gestured you closer. You went. You were _eager_.

The woman closed the grand door. It closed with a heavy groan. She walked slowly towards you, ankles cracking and limping behind her.

The man and the woman turned _as one_ to point you to a direction. You turned slowly.

There was an orchestra stage. It was grey with a deep red carpet. 

You smiled.

You started walking towards it. Old frail bones _screaming_ as you went.

The man and the woman grinned, lips nonexistent, at their place, only _teeth_ . _Red dripping, sharp teeth_.

You arrived at the stage. You took your place and your cello.

_You_ _played_.

It started slow, almost a dragging melody. 

It didn’t quicken. It didn’t slowen. It went _quiet._

Then _it_ came back.

It turned _haunting_ . Echoing throughout the house. _Everything_ was filled with the same tune slowly pulling you along _deeper_ and _higher_.

The man and the woman were moving languidly. Swaying back and forth, arms extending, swirling across the ballroom. They were moving as _one_ . Where the other ended, the other began. _Caught_ in the hypnosis of the melody.

Slowly the grand door opened. The footsteps didn’t echo, they _drowned_. 

A man came. He was dressed in white. His skin was stretched, bones sticking out. He was grey. _He didn’t have any eyes_ . There were only two bloody, _dripping_ holes in his head. He was dancing.

The eyeless man bowed. He was welcoming you.

_You kept playing._

They danced as one. Swaying, twirling _around_ and _around_. No one missed a beat. It was a familiar melody.

Your hands dragging the bow across the taut strings. You didn’t think anymore. You were entirely focused on the cello. The music was in you. You felt _grey_.

The door opened again. You didn’t notice it anymore. You were entrapped.

There were more people in the ballroom now. You didn’t notice.

One had their chin ripped from their face. One’s neck had been slashed open. One’s jaw was hanging by a thread. One had their ribcage torn from their chest. One’s nails were long lost, replaced with knives. Ones whole body was burned beyond recognition. They kept coming. 

You didn’t notice anything. Lost in drag of the bow.

The room was filled with white, dancing bodies. _Everyone_ moved as one, twirling mass.

You didn’t notice anything. You were _grey_. Washed out.

Arm raised to the left. A step to the right. 

The melody was grey.

You didn’t notice anything. 

The dance was closer to you. 

You were _lost_ in the grey.

Everyone was gathered near the stage. You played your cello.

The woman ascended the heavy stairs up to the orchestra stage. Her steps were sure and grin crooked.

You played the familiar melody.

The others slowly moved after the woman, taking limping, breaking, steps towards the stage.

You were surrounded. You didn’t notice. _Lost._

The woman was behind you now. Her body leaning against your _old_ , _frail_ body.

You didn’t feel a _thing_. Only the cello in your arms.

_Everyone was in their place._

One by one they joined your haunting. 

First it was a violin. A flute. A piano. A harp.

_Everyone was one_. Grey. 

The woman was dragging her knives disguised as nails across your arms and chest. Red dripping after her hands.

You didn’t feel a thing. You were but a _mere instrument_ for the melody.

The woman continued dragging her hands.

You tilted your head back. You felt _grey_.

The woman raised her knives to your face, dragging them from the corner of your mouth towards your ears, _carving_ a forever smiling grin to your face. _A red dripping grin._

You felt something. 

_It was_ _relief_. 

The woman leaned over your shoulder, knives tightening at your shoulders. Her lips pulled back. It was a _smile_.

You smiled. You would always smile.

Your hands continued dragging across the taunt strings.

Your clothes were pure white and your hands lifess grey dripping red. _You were grey_.

Your grin never wavered. It would _never_ waver.

The melody was in your head. It was in _everyone’s_ head.

Everyone was swaying in tune with the _haunting, dull, magnificent,_ beautiful melody.

You began to sway.

You grinned. Oh your life had been miserable. Everyone left, only _fake_ smiles and _beautiful_ expectations. But now.

You would always be _happy_. _You would never ever be alone again._

You were swaying in sync. Everyone was in sync. Everyone was playing the melody. Everyone was _grey_ , decaying, _bleeding, rotting, beautiful_ , disintegrating, _grinning, grey_ , dying, _living_.

You let the music _consume_ you. You had found your purpose. Dragging the bow you were complete.

Everything was a complete _bliss_. A bloody, grey bliss.

Your grin stretching, red dripping from your _rotting_ smile, you played. And played.

And played.

_Played_.

* * *

_The envelope came in 7.12.1997. It looked old and it had a bloody red crest sealing it. It didn’t have anything written on it. You didn’t get a chance to look further, your brother was yelling for you._

_It was gone when you went looking for it._

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be a horror story? 
> 
> Is it really? I don't know.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> A huge thanks to my friends who beta read it for me! Love you guys!


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